I had been counting down the days until my husband, Ethan, would return home. After months of separation, I was ready to have him back in my arms. But fate had other plans.
One night, a severely burned soldier was brought to the hospital where I worked. His face was wrapped in bandages, and he had no memory of who he was. As a doctor, I focused on stabilizing him, but something about his eyes felt familiar.
“Check his emergency contact,” I told the nurse. Moments later, she looked at me, her face pale.
“Dr. Peterson… the emergency contact is J. Peterson.”
My heart stopped.
I turned to the man in the bed. Those eyes—they were Ethan’s. But he wasn’t supposed to be here, not like this.
For days, I stayed by his side, telling him stories of our life together—how we met, how we danced in the kitchen, how he loved our dog, Maverick. He listened intently, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to remember.
But something felt off. He hesitated when I mentioned Maverick and seemed distant when I talked about our favorite song. My heart told me this was my husband, but my gut said otherwise.
Then, the truth came crashing down.
A military officer arrived one morning, his expression grim. “Dr. Peterson,” he said, “there’s been a mistake. The man you’ve been caring for… he’s not your husband.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. His tags—”
“There was a fire,” the officer explained. “Two soldiers were injured, and their belongings were mixed up. Your husband, Ethan, is alive. But he’s in a different hospital.”
Relief and guilt washed over me. Ethan was alive, but he’d been alone, thinking I had abandoned him. Meanwhile, I had been pouring my heart out to a stranger, trying to help him remember a life that wasn’t his.
The officer offered to take me to Ethan. As we drove, my mind raced. When we arrived, I ran to his room, my heart pounding.
There he was—my Ethan. Bandaged and bruised, but alive.
“Jenny?” he whispered, his voice rough.
I rushed to his side, tears streaming down my face. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
He squeezed my hand weakly. “I thought you’d left me.”
“Never,” I said, my voice breaking. “They sent you to the wrong hospital. I was with someone else. I would never leave you.”
For a long time, we just held each other, grateful to be reunited. Then, with a quiet resolve, Ethan made a decision.
“I’m done, Jenny,” he said. “I can’t keep putting you through this. I want to be home. With you. With our family.”
Tears filled my eyes as I smiled. “Ethan, are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’ve given everything to my country. Now, I want to fight for us.”
